Chicks Dig The Fastball

November 25, 2012

I know it has been awhile, life has been crazy and all, but I just posted this on my fantasy football league's message board and thought I would share. Out of 14 otherwise male teams, I am in first-place in the midst of Week 12:

I don't know what to say really. Two weeks to the biggest playoff battle of our professional lives all comes down to today. Either we heal as teams or we are going to crumble. Inch by inch, fantasy point by fantasy point, til we’re finished.

You are in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And you can stay there and get the shit kicked out of you by a girl or you can fight your way back into the light. You can climb out of hell. One fantasy point at a time.

Now I can’t do it for you. I’m too competitive. I look around and I see these playoff-desperate faces and I think, I mean, I made every right choice a young female manager could make. But I uhh…. pissed away all my trade good will, believe it or not. I traded off any waiver wire pick-up who ever loved me. And lately, I can’t even stand the face I see in MJD’s spot on my roster.

You know when you get too competitive in life, things get taken away from you. That’s, that’s part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out that life is just a game of points. So is fantasy football. Because in either game, life or fantasy football, the margin of error is so small. I mean, one yard short or early injury, you don’t quite succeed. One terrible transaction or dropped opportunity, and you don’t get the score. The fantasy points we need are everywhere around us. They are in every break of the game. Every minute, every second.

In this league, we fight for that point. In this league, we tear ourselves, and everyone around us, to pieces for that point. We claw with our fingernails for that point. Because we know. We know when we add up all of those points, that’s going to make the fucking difference between WINNING and LOSING, between the PLAYOFFS and SHAME.

I’ll tell you this. In any fight, it is the guy or surprisingly awesome female who is willing to die who is going to win that point. And I know if I am going to have any life anymore it is because I am always willing to fight and die for that point – because that is what WINNING is: the six imaginary points you left on your bench.

Now I can’t make you do it. You gotta look at the guy in this week's match-up. Look into his eyes. Now I think you are going to see a guy who will go for that point against you. You are going to see a guy who will sacrifice himself for his team. Because he knows when it comes down to it, you are going to do the same thing to him.

That’s a fantasy league, gentlemen. And either we play now, asteams, or we will die as humiliated individuals. That’s fantasy football guys. That’s all it is. Now, what are you gonna do?

February 5, 2012

I am off to the Tribeca Tap House to watch the Giants take on the Patriots for round two of the Best Super Bowl Ever. My heart has been pounding since approximately Friday at 6:00 p.m. when I asked my boss what he was doing for the Super Bowl and he responded, “When is it?”I am not sure if things have been that crazy at work or if he is just the antithesis to the sports crazy I bring to the office every day. Either way, I am psyched for the game.

The way I see it? The Giants have little to lose.We have already seen this game and we won it the first time.If the Pats win? Eh, it still won’t mean as much as Super Bowl 42. Will I be disappointed? Of course. Against all odds, the Giants worked their asses off to get here. But no matter how the game ends, no matter if it is an absolute blowout, it will not be as gut-wrenchingly amazing as Eli’s Miracle Escape and the Tyree Helmet Catch.Nevertheless, the Giants will win today because:

No, really, he is a hugeasshole.Poor Tiquan. And I don’t say that because of his hair.

Madonna is rooting for the Giants and no one fucks with Madge, fake British accent or not.(I know I am in the minority, but I am as excited for the half-time show as I am about the game).

“Yo Tengo un Ankle-o Injured-o.”

Eli needs a second ring for his other middle finger so when he tells everyone that thought he was just “The Other Manning” to go fuck themselves, he can really put an exclamation point on it.

The Pats are only here because the Ravens wet the bed, causing the majority of the plane, on our way home from the Dominican Republic, to collectively boo.Also? New England did not beat one team with a winning record during the regular season.

The House That Peyton Built is formally transitioning to the House Where Peyton Once Resided. Who better to light it on fire than his little brother?

Brian Cashman really needs the New York media to have something else to focus on and celebrate over the next few weeks.(Look for an upcoming CDTF post dedicated to the horny elf’s “stalking” scandal).

Our front four is more fun than the Final Four.

Eli raised eyebrows when he compared himself to Tom Brady at the start of the season.As this genius at Bleacher Report wrote: “No. He. Didn't. Eli Manning went on the Michael Kay Show, which airs on ESPN New York 1050, and put himself in the same class as Tom Brady. Seriously. I can't make something like this up. If you want to listen to the whole thing, go here. But I have to warn you, this is not a work-appropriate link. You will laugh hard enough to draw unnecessary attention to yourself."

Yes. He. Did. And then Eli only went on to have the best season of his career.Today is the perfect opportunity to prove, once and for all, that he is not in the same class as Tom Brady, he outclasses him.

All of the pressure is on the Pats, especially Tom Terrific who has sucked so far this post-season and is haunted by the ghost of recent failures (and perhaps Myra Kraft?).

We have a trifecta of terrifying receivers in Cruz-Manningham-Nicks, while the Patriots have a mediocre secondary.

I can see the Ticker Tape parade from my apartment window. Let’s do this. Again.

January 17, 2012

In honor of Martin Luther King Jr., the upcoming apocalypse, and my best friend Carl’s 30th birthday, I will be on vacation in the Dominican Republic until Sunday.Hopefully I will not get murdered or anything.If you would like to submit an order for steroids or other contraband, please email chicksdigthefastball@gmail.com.

While in the DR, I intend to bask on the beach and read books, catch some baseball games and find the next Albert Pujols, and down enough drinks with little colorful umbrellas that I forget just how cold it is in New York.Hopefully by the time I get back, if I get back at all that is, Time Warner Cable and MSG will have worked out their issues and I will be able to watch the Knicks again.

Until then, let’s go Giants and Blue Devils. Have a great week guys, and please check back next Monday.

January 16, 2012

My father curiously left me a voicemail the other day, imploring me to call him because he had a “sports-related question.” This happens as often as Tim Tebow has sex. To be clear, my dad’s vast sports knowledge consists of little league softball games, NASCAR race tracks, and the fact that Duke has a basketball team called the Blue Devils. That said, after forcing him to go to four years of Blue-White Scrimmages and Family Weekend football games, at least he knows where I went to college. The pertinent portion of our conversation went something along the lines of:

Dad: Does Duke have a monopoly on Blue Devils?

Me: Huh? What do you mean, “a monopoly?”

Dad: Like a trademark. Doesn’t Duke own the Blue Devils?

Me: I mean, we are clearly the most famous of Blue Devils, but we do not “own” the team name. Where is this coming from?

Dad: Well, we were driving through Deep Run last weekend (Editor’s Note: Take a left at Bumfuck, North Carolina, go three miles up the dirt road, hang a right at the tin mailbox, and boom, you’ve found Deep Run), and there is a big sign – I saw it twice – which said, “Welcome to Deep Run, Home of the Blue Devils.”

Me: Maybe it has some connection, like my boy James B. Duke had an illegitimate child there? Or a local sports team? I have no idea.

Dad: “Home of the Blue Devils.” I really thought Duke owned the Blue Devils. Well, what is a Blue Devil?

Me: A French soldier.

Dad: What? That doesn’t make any sense.

Me: Neither do you.

Dad: Your basketball team is named after the French? You know how I feel about the French after The Incident in Paris. (Thoughtful pause). But why? It just doesn’t make sense. Please find out how this happened.

Me: I am more curious about Deep Run’s connection to the Blue Devils, any Blue Devil for that matter, but okay.

The following history lesson of questionable accuracy goes out to my father, the wonderful man who drove all over the country to watch me play sports and yet still remains somewhat clueless about each of them.

* * *

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, an elite army, dressed in dapper dark blue jackets and capes, was formed. Not just any army, but a specialized force trained to overcome mountains, standardized testing, and urban warfare. Ever since 1859, when the independent states of Italy finally arrived at a consensus that they indeed preferred to resemble a large boot as opposed to a collection of mismatching doll slippers, the French were very frightened. So in 1888, to protect the Alpine border, they created an infantry known as the “Chasseurs Alpins,” the very first military unit to ever pimp a beret – which was called a “tarte,” because it was the sexy size of a pie. They had style if nothing else.

Dispatched to the mountains, the Chasseurs Alpins were taught survival skills such as cross-country skiing, igloo building, personal weaponry, lemur hunting, collar popping, and beer pong. They were not taught how to play football. Still, the infantry was so elite that they banished certain words from their vocabulary and substituted new ones. For example, the Chasseurs – which remain a strong force in France today – do not say red, or “rouge,” but instead say “blue-cerise,” meaning cherry blue. They say “jonquille” instead of “jaune,” or daffodil instead of yellow. They do not wear a “uniforme,” but a “tenue” or outfit. The Chasseurs are so brilliant that they must literally speak down to someone else’s level in regular conversation.

The Chasseurs Alpins became internationally renowned for their skills, but more importantly, for resembling superheroes. During World War I, they were nicknamed “les Diables Bleus,” or the Blue Devils, due to the color of their uniforms, billowing capes, and ginormous hats. To raise support for the war, troops of French Blue Devils traveled around the United States, holding events for the public. Like Captain America, but not. Irving Berlin, the great songwriter, penned lyrics in tribute: “strong and active, most attractive…those Devils, the Blue Devils of France.” Rihanna did the remix.

January 5, 2012

Yes, I perhaps have a date with Derek Jeter on January 12th. Now all I need is $2,500.00 to make it happen.

Last week, my friend Amanda forwarded me an email with the mysterious subject line “Wine and dine with the New York Yankees' MVP at Tribeca Rooftop,” followed by one line of text: “thought you might like this.” I love wine, food, the Yankees, Tribeca, and rooftop bars, so really? I “might like this” was already the understatement of the year. I wanted more information, and in particular, I needed to know which “MVP” we were talking about here. Would I want to “wine and dine” with Joba? No, I would be afraid he’d eat me. AJ Burnett? Only if I wanted to have nightmares about being murdered, since he will always remind me of a serial killer. Mark Teixeira? I am almost certain that bible study would be less boring. Curiously, the body of the forwarded email contained no text at all. At the time, it seemed like nothing more than a ginormous cock tease. But then I hit “display images below” and the following graphic appeared:

December 22, 2011

CDTF is back. My sincere apologies for the absence (I had what felt like swine flu and about sixteen court hearings over the past two weeks). What better way to kick things off than to talk about a few of my favorite things? Baseball, scandals, Ryan Braun, and his penis.

When I saw that Ryan Braun had tested positive for PEDs, I almost lost it. Please. I wasn’t shocked or anything. I was angry. I wish I could say that I was angry because he is a fraud or, worse, may have cheated. Nope. I do not have sound morals, let’s be serious. I was irate because my new favorite player, the MVP of Joe Girardi’s Braces – the SOLE reason I lobbied for a keeper league all season – could be sitting out for 50 games. I mean, good god, he was a fantasy baseball wet dream. Homers, steals, hits, total bases, RBIs, walks, batting average, he has it all. After I got over my initial rage, my first thought was: would you keep/draft him anyway? (Yes). My second thought was: hopefully, the lord told Adrian Gonzalez to take steroids, too.

For what it’s worth, Braun has strenuously denied using PEDs. In fact, this whole scandal may just be the result of his dirty, dirty penis. There are rumors swirling around that my MVP has HPV, i.e. herpes. He apparently tested positive for it, and the medication he was prescribed caused his testosterone levels to shoot through the roof. This could explain Braun’s silence on the matter; his attorneys plan to vigorously pursue the person who leaked the story under a violation of his HIPAA rights. This could also explain why my team tanked the final week of the season after going undefeated; our entire virtual clubhouse was infected with fucking herpes.

December 7, 2011

After we got our asses handed to us by Ohio State, it seems rather predictable that Duke will take out any lingering frustration and embarrassment tonight on the poor Rams of Colorado State. And I look forward to such a cakewalk blowout. As I sit here watching the first half, however, I do not find myself admiring Mason Plumlee’s thundering dunks or the game’s blistering pace or Duke’s stifling defense; instead, I am mesmerized by this ridiculous editorial in The Chronicle.

By now, I am sure many of you have already read sophomore Nicole Daniels’s guest column. I have lived under a rock for the past few days – mind you, a rock filled with six court hearings, a 30th birthday party attended by a porn star, and approximately 86 pages of legal writing – but I heard rumblings about it. Thank god I didn’t have time to read it before now, because I would have been unable to control my urge to mock it and I really didn’t have time for such a thing. The full editorial is posted below in italics; my comments are in brackets:

On Nov. 19, I was looking forward to attending a party that Pi Kappa Phi was hosting that night on Central Campus. That is, until my friend nonchalantly texted me that the event’s theme was “Pilgrims and Indians.”

[I mean, from her very first words we know that she is woefully misguided and perhaps even a little confused. No one looks forward to parties on Central Campus].

The following is an excerpt from the fraternity’s email invitation: “In 1621 some crazy pilgrims had a pretty brutal harvest. Word on the street was they didn’t have enough food for half the bros in Plymouth. Then some hot natives came along with some extra food.… On Saturday, the brothers of Pi Kappa Phi will be honoring that party spirit. There will be a cornucopia of treats in our modern-day teepee. Tap into your inner pocahotness, wear a few feathers and party like you don’t care if you survive the winter.”

[Until the last sentence, the only things that bothered me about Pi Kappa Phi’s invitation were its grammar and punctuation. But the last sentence? It riled me. It made me want to go to the damn party. It reminded me of how much I miss college. I was already picturing what I would wear to such an event: a suede skirt, eye black war paint, a home-made wife-beater with some offensive/catchy phrase (i.e, “Christopher Columbus banged my grandmother” or “Use protection. Carry a bow and arrow”), and slutty heels. Clearly, I would work a feather in there somewhere, too. I mean, the last sentence of the invitation is why I normally think Duke students have an uncanny knack for wittiness. But then I kept reading the op-ed and remembered that some of us are douchebags after all].

About Us

We still dig the long ball, but it is just SO 1998. We also dig slap bunt singles, long three-pointers, and kick-off returns for TDs. Edited by Jill Hopman, former tomboy, current attorney, and Blue Devil for life.